


Blind Faith

by glitchfics



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Blind Character, Blind!Marco, Guide dog instructor!Jean, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 18:36:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9001954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitchfics/pseuds/glitchfics
Summary: Marco is still trying to get back into the swing of things a year after an accident that cost him his eyesight and his right arm. Things start to look up once he meets guide dog instructor, Jean, and his new partner, Acacia. The accident changed him, but does that keep him from exploring a new relationship?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ikisbean0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ikisbean0/gifts).



> I'm so happy to be able to participate in the gift exchange! It got a little crazy with me trying to get my internet to work and allow me to get this through, but I really hope it was worth it. Happy Holidays!

_The sound was inarguably the loudest thing that he had ever heard. Like firecrackers going off, except the entire roadside stand, all at once. Like an aerosol can bursting in the heat. Like the crack of an aluminum bat against the white leather hide of a baseball. It was a punchy, popping sound that hit him square in the chest, that disrupted the steady rhythm of his heart. What followed, he felt even more deeply. It was the kind of aftershock that splits the ground in the wake of an earthquake, a sonic boom veining the floor beneath him, rumbling up through his feet and bringing him to his knees. After that, everything else that bounded off of his eardrums were secondary sounds. Distant screams, somewhere else in the warehouse. Pounding feet. Crashes of burning crates falling to the concrete below. The smoke that quickly filled the air didn’t curl around flared nostrils, it choked him from underneath his skin with blunt fingertips. Grime mingled with the sweat on his forearms, leaving dirty, damp smears in his wake as he crawled towards the exit. The air was filled with unsettled creaking, old ships rocking on choppy waves in the harbor. It was the shelves, the massive metal beams that towered above all else. He heard their complaining but didn’t register it, too intent on escaping. That was before a crate glanced off of his shoulder, driving his front into the floor. Before he could gather himself back up onto his hands and knees, a spike of grating sound drove itself into his brain. He rolled over, his chest rising and falling in exhausted pants that begged for oxygen without the suffocating smoke. White hot sparks flew as metal sheared from metal and forests of beams lay felled. Those, the sparks, he felt. Felt them skitter across the floor and singe his clothes, his skin. Felt them rain into his eyes. Furious blinking didn’t clear his vision, and it almost didn’t matter, visibility was already so low. Why couldn’t he - Why wasn’t he moving? He reached across himself and probed at his arm. It was a beam; one of the many that had collapsed. He stopped thinking, even when more beams fell, only kept from falling on him by the one at his side. Even when he heard voices calling. Even when he was finally uncovered and carefully lifted out._

Marco’s eyes didn’t snap open like they used to. Instead, he laid there awake, eyes closed. The nightmares - memories - were common occurrences now. It wasn’t often that he made it through the night without the places in between his slumber punctuated by a racing heart and cold sweat. Gradually, it passed. Once it was gone, he allowed himself to sit up and open his eyes, not that it mattered. His face turned towards the window instinctively; he had always risen with the sun. Sometimes it felt like its warmth was enough to shine through the haze, like he could still see a hint of the soft glow. This morning was not one of those mornings. Instead, he asked his phone was time it was, and carefully slid out of bed when he heard that it was about ten o’clock. 

He could hear the whisper of his feet across the carpet, stopping in front of where he knew the mirror was and allowing his hand to ghost over what was left of his arm. Fingers hesitated at the end, fell away before they could brush where it stopped. The t-shirt he snagged from the back of the reading chair in the corner went on easily. Next, jeans and boots. Hair took a second-long finger run-through at best. His hand passed over his shirt after he spit frothy white into the sink, checking for any damp spots. The house was already clean, but an idle hand made for a wandering mind, and he distracted himself with making the bed. Each sheet was pulled up towards the pillows individually and run over with a hand to ensure it was smooth. Marco walked out and closed the door carefully behind him, walking down the hallway towards the old stairs. His breath hitched as he passed the guest room because he knew what he would smell. The faint earthiness of clay was so familiar to him that not noticing it was virtually impossible, and he didn’t need to think of that room. The room that he had spent so long on; ripping up the carpet so that he could nail down plywood and paint it a durable grey. He had hauled a massive junkyard worktable up the stairs with a couple of guys from the warehouse, each of them grunting and blowing out sharp breaths. Once it was finagled in - after one badly chipped door frame - they tramped down the stairs and did the same with the bench that accompanied it. The careful sanding and staining he had put into it left it perfectly smooth and gleaming, restored to its former glory. That dominated the far right corner. The entire rest of the right wall was racks of tools and half-finished projects. The far left corner had bags of clay, and the near, a closet for spare coats and things. 

Losing his sight had robbed him of something, he didn’t care what anybody said. He hadn’t touched clay in nearly a year, and he didn’t intend to now. It would never be as good, never be the same. 

He went down the stairs at a pace that would have his father clutching his chest. That’s what it was like when he was staying with them, his dad and stepdad. Marco had been relegated to the first floor; and nearly every time he stood up, a hand cradled his elbow while the other splayed across his back. In retrospect, it was understandable. But at the time, nothing made him feel more incapable, more like an infant. 

Cereal clinked the glazed ceramic of the bowl as he poured it and proceeded to eat it dry with his fingers on the couch while the morning news anchors droned on quietly in front of him. There were days like this when all he could do was think, and think, and think. Marco didn’t want today to be one of those days. Because today, something good was actually going to happen. After he realized that, yes, he’d ended up sans an arm and permanently blind, he started the process of getting a guide dog. As soon as he possibly could, at least. And today was the day that he actually got to meet it. “It” because he didn’t know anything yet. Sex, breed, name; nothing. All he had to do was preoccupy himself until the afternoon, when the trainer would come by and introduce them. 

To pass the time, he did what he usually did. Manual labor. Working with his hands. Firewood that he’d split before the accident was stacked against the red brick of the house underneath of a tarp to keep it dry. He piled up a small stack on the weathered worktable beside the firewood and carefully slid his arm beneath it, fingers curling around the splintery edge. The door was nudged open and closed behind him with his shoulder. He bent, letting the wood fall to the hearth so that he could re-organize it into its neat pyramid. There was time for a few other things in the yard to get done before he really felt the need to get dressed. 

He made his way up the stairs again, stripping off the work-worn top and depositing it back on the chair. The shirt Ymir had helped him choose went on quickly as buttons slid comfortably through their respective holes. Just as he started back down the stairs, his phone went off in his pocket. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, are you sure you don’t want us there? At all? You’re sure?”

He couldn’t help but smile. “I’m sure, Dad. It’s alright. You’ll see me soon enough.”

“I just mean - I mean you don’t need anyone to sit with you or - I don’t know.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

The doorbell echoed up the stairwell. 

“I have to go, okay?”

“Okay, tell me how it goes. I love you.”

“I will, love you too.”

The door swung open after he unlocked it and gave it a swift tug. 

“Marco Bodt? I’m Jean Kirchstein with Seeing Dogs.” His voice wasn’t particularly low, and it wasn’t particularly high. It resided on the lower side of a happy medium, but what made it unique was a characteristic scratchiness. Not hoarseness or the kind of gravelly sound people wake up with after a night of disuse. It was an inherent raspiness, and it was pleasant. 

“Yes, I’ve been expecting you. It’s nice to meet you.” He stepped aside and gestured for him to come in, offering his hand after he closed the front door and locked it. 

Jean’s hand was almost hot without being clammy, like he’d been holding a cup of coffee. 

“Should we sit down?”

“Yeah, sure. The living room is just back here.” As they walked; he heard it. Nails clicked quietly along the hardwood floors, and without words to fill the space, soft panting filled took their place. “Is that the dog?” Excitement whet his voice sharp. 

His smile was audible in the way that smiles are, in the way that they change the way words come out. “Yes, this is Acacia.”

Marco knelt on the floor and sat, one leg propped up by his side. He tested the name on his tongue. “Acacia.” The nails clicked closer, and he felt smooth fur under his fingers. His grin split his face as her nose snuffled at his hand before he ran it over her. 

“What does she look like?”

“She’s a black German Shepherd. A big pair of golden eyes. She’s pretty leggy too. And very laid back.”

He felt her pointed ears swiveling, traced the long, straight slope of her muzzle. There was a thick ruff of fur around her neck that trailed down to a swirl on her chest. 

“She feels tall.” His hand wandered up from her paw to her shoulder.

Jean’s voice sounded closer now. “She is, for the breed. But so are you, so it works.”

Quickly, he hugged her close, burying his face in her neck. His hand scratched her side, and he could feel his eyes getting moist. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you so much.” Acacia felt like a chance. For a moment, he thought he could have his life back. Maybe he wouldn’t feel his cheeks start to burn when he walked down the street with a cane. Maybe he could work again. Maybe the emptiness of his house wouldn’t echo so loudly. It had been months since any of those things felt possible. He wiped hastily at his eyes and smiled again. 

“You’re welcome. Why don’t we talk some? You need a hand?”

Marco looked up. “It’s alright, I’m fine.” He stood and sat back on the couch, gesturing in the vague direction of the easy chair for Jean. 

“So, what do you need to know?” He could feel Acacia’s side brushing his leg subtly. 

“Well -” He heard a sheath of papers rustle. “I’ve seen your application, but I would love to just talk.”

“What do you think you would need the most help with?”

He propped his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. “I suppose it’s really just when I’m out in public. The cane serves its purpose, but I don’t like to go anywhere that isn’t at least a little bit familiar because I’m afraid, I guess. And the cane can be a bit… off-putting as well. A dog makes me feel normal. More normal.”

“Yeah.”

“Everything else is fine. Turns out you only really need one arm anyways.” He half-laughed. 

Jean chuckled. “Well, that’s good. She’s been in training for months, so you can feel completely comfortable allowing her to lead you. But there will be plenty of practice during class, and that should last about a month. We’ll go over other things as well, but if you want to focus on the leading, that’s okay.”

They kept talking, for how long he didn’t know. Jean wanted to know what he did, where he went, what he wanted to do. It was nice to be able to talk like that, to grow used to Acacia at his side while they were speaking. He could already feel how attuned he was to her. When she moved, he paid attention. It felt like she was always meant to be there, keeping quiet watch. Eventually his hand came to rest on her head, and he rubbed at her ears slowly. 

“She loves that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And also down on her butt.” Jean laughed. “Like right above her tail.”

Marco smiled in the direction of his voice. He reached down and scratched. “Here?”

“Yeah, wait.”

They both laughed when Acacia gave a near-silent whine and started wagging her tail without moving another muscle.

“You know what would be great?”

He rose his eyebrows and looked up. 

“If I could see your setup for her. You know, all of the dog stuff.”

“No problem.” Preparing for Acacia had been a work months in progress. And you’d think that he was adopting a kid, the way his dad and Derek bought him gifts. A baby shower would’ve been thrown if he hadn’t resisted like he did. He leaned forward and stood up from the couch, patting his thigh for Acacia to trot after him. Navigating the kitchen was easy. Coming in from the living room, on the right, he avoided the heavy slab of walnut that had been meticulously treated and bolted to modern steel legs. Beyond that was the peninsula, and that jutted even farther than the table. He’d learned that lesson via bruised hip bones enough. He wasn’t exactly happy with the kitchen. The countertops were laminate, the cabinets overpainted wood. Thankfully they’d kept the original hardwoods, but that was a small blessing. 

“Sorry for the state of the kitchen. You want to renovate and life just - just gets in the way.”

Jean was quiet, which was fine. There were few people who handled being faced with someone else’s mortality, and therefore their own, very well. Death contradicts life, brokenness contradicts wholeness, it made sense. 

Marco’s eyes widened when he actually spoke. 

“What are you thinking of doing in here?”

His middle finger chafed at the nail bed of his thumb. “Well, we were going to strip the cabinets, repaint them white, and do a nice granite.” But there was no “we” anymore. “But I’ve always been partial to navy. Maybe marble on the countertops. Or butcher block. I want the kitchen to make sense with the table.”

“Mm, you’re right. The table is kind of rustic meets -”

“- modern.”

“Exactly! You know what I did see was a little butcher block island. Then you could do marble without worrying about it looking to highbrow for the table.”

“Ah, so you know kitchens.”

Jean sounded like he was confessing. “Proud HGTV fanatic.”

“Please tell me you’re a ‘Fixer Upper’ and not a ‘Flip or Flop’.” There was a massive difference between the sweet Texan couple with a menagerie of children and animals, and the LA pair buying and selling houses for millions. 

“I’ve had dreams about spending a day antiquing with Joanna Gaines, yes.”

They laughed in tandem, and Marco leaned against the countertop. “I see that I can trust you, then.” He searched with his foot, nudging the bowls on their little stand. “Alright, here are her bowls. Easy-clean metal, up on a stand so that she doesn’t have to bow so far.” He stepped across the kitchen and opened the pantry door. “In the bottom we have food, treats, and a basket of toys that I’ve been waiting to pull out. A nice assortment of tug toys, some rubber balls, a frisbee, and a few other things. No rawhide. All organic.”

“Impressive. It sounds like you’ve done some research.”

Marco smiled happily. “That and the fact that my entire family has been waiting for this day almost more than I have. Follow me.” His movements were quick and sure in his home in a way that they couldn’t be anywhere else, and he relished in that. Footsteps followed him up the stairs and into his bedroom, where he pointed to the corner he’d situated a leather and shearling dog bed. Before Jean could say anything else, he held up a finger and pulled open the third drawer of his dresser. 

“Now I can’t say I’ll be putting her in any of these, but my dad took a liking to dog clothes. She seems comfortable enough as is in her vest, but it’s funny to me that she has options.”

He heard Jean laugh, his voice growing closer as he knelt beside him. “This is so funny. She’d tolerate them, but I don’t know if she’d be all that happy.”

His nose wrinkled with amusement. “I thought you’d say that.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment before Jean spoke.

“Hey, do you want to go try?”

“Try?”

“Try walking with her.”

He bit his lip. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

The air was nippy once they stepped out of the door; it bit at his skin and cooled an already icy touch. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because he was walking outside, yes with his cane, but also with his hand on Acacia’s harness. It was different, putting so much blind faith - forgive the expression - in her when most of his time outside was spent trying not to bump into things. And walking with her meant trusting that he wouldn’t. It meant walking, essentially, like he used to. He could feel Jean practically radiating heat on his right side, the side where his shirt sleeve fell, knotted. Their loop around his neighborhood was brief, but the fact that it went well offered him a shaky confidence that he hadn’t felt in awhile. It was nearly three by the time Jean shook his hand, pulled him in for a hug, and gave Acacia a parting scratch on the rump. His car engine rattled as he started it, and gravel crunched under his tires when he pulled away. 

“So it’s just you and me now, huh?”

Acacia brushed against his leg like he was beginning to realize she had a tendency of doing, and he bent to unbuckle her vest so that she could finally explore. The second it was off she pushed her hand into his head and started sniffing around; he could hear her snuffling at the floor. 

The rest of the day into the night was spent as it usually was, practicing braille, giving up, and listening to an audiobook in the chair in his room. Tonight it was “20 Leagues Under the Sea”, and as he listened, he stroked Acacia with his foot. As he felt himself beginning to drift, her warm bulk shifted and padded off. Startled, he followed her curiously, nearly tripping over her as he passed the guest room. His studio, it would be more appropriate to say. Her nose was running along the space in between the floor and the bottom of the door, and all it took was a half-leap and a shove for her to open the door as she investigated. The doorknob was more of a handle than a knob, a little too dog accessible, perhaps. 

“Acacia.” It came out sternly, more than he wanted it to. But he couldn’t go in there. 

She trotted out at his command, but that familiar smell still wafted out. Earthy clay and the sharp, lingering smell of the stain on the worktable that had been fresh a year ago. It hit him in a way that was infinitely more visceral than expected. In a way that slammed the door and drained the color from his face. In a way that pinned him to the wall and jabbed him in the backs of his knees. He folded his arm over his legs and bowed his head into it, shoulders shaking silently. The tears liked to collect in his throat before they started streaming; they always did. It felt like they were trying to choke him, like he couldn’t breath. 

Until Acacia sat beside him and did her little lean, nosing at his ear. 

They stayed like that until Marco eventually gathered his legs beneath himself and wandered to his room with the four-legged shadow trailing behind. She laid beside his bed instead of in her own, his fingers brushed her coat as they fell asleep. 

\--

The next couple of weeks of classes went well, better than expected. It gave him something to look forward to. Instead of obsessively tidying the house and going out on small excursions to whatever was comfortably close to him, he was in class with Acacia, working together. They were getting better, and quickly too. He couldn't take any of the credit; her intelligence seemed beyond human sometimes. Often he found himself talking to her out loud while he cooked, or cleaned, or even listened to an audiobook. She talked back in her own way, garbled growls and howls that she emitted from her post at his side. She didn't venture into his studio again.

His therapist agreed, Acacia was amazing. She made him feel complete, like he was him again. It was more than just his eyesight, it was his life. He wanted to get out of bed, go places, see people. The numbness was loosening its hold on him. The idea of being free from that painful emptiness excited him more than something had in a very long time.

He woke and sat up leisurely, his night uninterrupted by memories. Today his face was warm with that sunlight feeling, like he could see the gentle glow. Once he sat up, so did Acacia, stretching like she was posing in “downward dog”. He had class today, which meant it was going to be a good day. It meant that he got to focus on Acacia and talk to Jean about the latest episode of “Fixer Upper” so that he could catch him up on what he had missed visually. Ymir hadn't felt like coming over and helping him watch the newest one.

It was getting chillier. If had been nippy the first time he took Acacia out with Jean, it was downright cold now. And his body was not happy with that. He'd avoided it, but he needed to pull some extra coats and scarves out of the wardrobe he kept them shut away in in his studio. His mood had been so nice lately that he didn't want to ruin it; it was so unfamiliar that it felt as fragile as the spidery threads of frost on his window panes in the mornings. But it had been a couple of weeks. Maybe he could do this.

He patted his leg for Acacia, so that she could walk with him as he stepped into the room.

It was that smell. He couldn't do it. It evoked everything that he'd lost, everything that he was so sure he could never have again. Art was his world, his absolute world, and he didn't think he could get by without it. But the worst thing to ever happen to him took away one of the only things that helped him cope. He knew it was bad because his sobs were audible. They didn't just wrack his frame quietly; they made themselves known. They echoed around the space that had once been his solace, and intensified the longer that he stayed there with his hand over his mouth and his shoulders hunched over.

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed. Acacia sat and leaned against his leg for however long it lasted, and she was probably the only reason he didn't stand there for longer than he already had.

Eyes still damp, he walked back into his room and checked his phone. He was greeted with a missed call from Ymir, and a voicemail asking how he was doing, how class was, if he wanted to get lunch. Bit late for lunch, but he might as well call her back. Maybe pretending that he was fine would help him believe it. When he was like this, she was the only one he really could talk to. Besides Acacia, now.

“Ymir?”

“Are you okay?” They were nearly the same age, looked far too much alike for step-siblings, and had grown up together. If anyone could read his voice like that, she could. 

“Um -” A second’s pause and a hitch in his voice before he broke. “No.” He barely whispered it through the lump in his throat.

“I'm coming over. Cuddle your dog, I'm fucking coming.”

It definitely didn't take her long enough to get to his house, which usually would've concerned him, but he needed her. He needed her to do her gruff Ymir thing and pull him down onto the couch and scratch his back until his eyes were dry again. And she always did, without question. She made him cry out loud, didn't let him contain the hitching breaths and tears until they spilled over within him and unleashed a fresh wave. Once he had slowed down to uneven, hiccuping breaths, she made him look at her.

“What happened? You've seemed so much better. Since Acacia, and your classes, and Jean.”

“Jean?”

She corrected herself. “I just mean that you two seem to be good friends.”

He felt tears brimming again and rubbed at them angrily, shrugging her hand away. “How is this possible? That my fucking eyes don't work, and I can still practically bawl them out? They really aren't good for shit.”

“What happened?”

Worn leather enveloped him as he leaned back into the couch and covered his eyes with his arm. “I went back into my studio to pull out some coats. I can't explain it. It just - it happens every time I even open the door, let alone walk in.”

“Have you talked about it with Dr. Smith?”

“Some, but not really.”

“You should. We all know how much sculpting meant to you.”

“Don't say that.” She said “we all”, like everyone knew, like everyone worried about him and thought he was weak.

“What do you want me to say?”

“No it's okay. I'm sorry; you're helping.”

She slipped her narrow arm around his shoulder and traced circles on what was left of his arm. “HGTV? I'll tell you what they don't say. Just until I have to pick Historia up from work.”

“Yeah,” he breathed.

“Alright, but only if you promise to talk to your therapist about this. And keep me in the loop. I can't have my little brother in bad shape.”

Marco smiled softly when she kissed his temple. “Promise.”

He loved when she did this. They might say what colors everything were, but rarely did they describe little details like inset panels or the width of the floorboards. After a mini-marathon, Ymir tapped his knee and stood up, ruffling his hair. 

“I have to go, Freckles. Are you gonna be okay?”

He let her pull him to his feet. “I'll be fine. Thanks.” 

“Good. I love you a lot, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Once she’d left, he picked his phone up off of the counter in the kitchen from the edge where he always left it. The last couple of messages in his voicemail were from Jean. Seeing them warmed the pit of his stomach.

_Hey, Marco. You weren’t in class today. I totally understand if something came up, but it would've been great if you could have called me to let me know or something. Anyways, I hope you're okay. Say hi to Acacia for me!_

The next one sounded different. The rasp was still there, but he sounded concerned. Even a little scared?

_Marco? I just want to make sure that you're okay; it's been awhile since I last called. Just call me back when you can!_

He blew out a breath and called Jean, listening to the dial tone as he walked up the stairs with Acacia at his heels. Just as he was about to hang up, he heard Jean on the other end of the line.

His voice was rough with sleep, and he sounded like he was trying to wake himself up. There were the same undertones as there were in the second message: concern, worry, even a little prickliness.

“Marco?”

“Hey, I guess wanted to call and apologize for missing class today. And for not picking up your calls.”

He could hear furniture creaking, presumably as Jean adjusted himself in bed or on a couch. 

“Oh, yeah - huh. It's okay. Are you - are you okay?” 

“Yeah, totally fine.”

“You sure?”

Marco turned the phone to speaker and rested it on the edge of his dresser, stripping his clothes off and depositing them into the hamper. He bit his lip as he changed his boxers and pulled a sweatshirt on.

“Ymir came over.”

“Your sister? What’s wrong?”

He cradled it in between his ear and shoulder, pacing over to the bed and falling back in it. Acacia appeared and curled up in her bed, which they’d moved to the side of his. “I can't have my sister over just to catch up?”

“You mentioned that she was with you for every moment after the accident. That she was the only one who you went to when you needed to talk.”

Jean remembered? “You listened.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Today, I needed her.”

“Oh.”

He laid there, with the phone by his ear, waiting for something else to interrupt the silence.

“What did she say?”

“The right thing. And she sat and helped me watch HGTV.”

“How does one help you watch HGTV?”

Marco curled up on his side and laughed. “Well, they usually give a lot of details, but whoever I'm watching with has to tell me all of the stuff that they don't mention. Specific kitchen configurations, little details, the way they stage the home, all that kind of stuff.”

“Can I audition?”

“What?”

Jean launched into it immediately. “The cabinets are a nice matte white finish with panels of glass in the middle. It's a traditional galley style kitchen, but they've gone all out on brand new stainless steel appliances. There's a double wide fridge and a double oven, and they've gone light on light with carrera marble countertops.” 

He laughed one of those intimate laughs that you share late at night on the phone. “What do the drawer pulls look like?”

“Oh my god, don't even get me started. Looks like they went with a slender brushed steel that sort of bunches and swirls into this design in the middle, and in the center of the swirl there's this clear gem. It's too much for the kitchen.”

“Even with the carrera?”

“Even with the carrera.”

He rolled onto his back and laid flat, letting his leg flop over the edge of the bed to stroke Acacia’s side like he always did. “I vote you move onto the next round.”

“And the other judges?”

“I'm hearing yes’s all around.”

“What does the next round entail?”

“A live, in-person HGTV viewing. Let's see how well you think on your feet.” Blood was rising pleasantly in his cheeks.

“I like the sound of that.”

They kept talking after that, but it wasn't much of anything. Just increasingly drowsy chatter filling the quiet space in between two phone lines. Eventually even that faded away and they were left with quiet breathing that neither minded. The inevitable happened, and he let heavy eyelids fall completely shut as light snoring emanated from the phone on the pillow beside his head.

\--

When he woke up in the morning, the call was still going. He hung up and realized how much later it was than usual when he asked his phone what time it was. And there was supposed to be class again today. Talking with Jean had been worth the late hours though. He couldn't - or didn't want to - explain the feeling it gave him. Warm, and eager, and content. Last night’s sweatshirt stayed on; it felt… special now that it had been a part of HGTV’s new late night series. He just pulled on a pair of jeans and his usual work boots. 

The rest of the morning was to go quickly if he was going to be on time to this class, and he didn't intend to miss another one. Acacia waited patiently by her bowl as he balanced her bag of food on his hip when his phone went off in his pocket. 

“Sorry, Acacia. Gimme a second.” He set it down on the floor, leaning it up against some of the bottom drawers.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Marco. It's Jean.”

“Hey! What do you need?”

“I was ah - was wondering if you wanted to get a cup of coffee this morning. I could use one after last night; I'm usually the early-to-bed kind of guy.” The rest came out rushed, each word chasing the next. “I could pick you up if you want. I know where you live.”

The smile that crept onto his lips was unavoidable. “Yeah, okay. I'll have to let Ymir know I've gotten a ride though.”

“I'll see you soon.”

“I'll be here.”

Dry food hit the bowl as he poured it apologetically for his shadow, letting a little bit more than usual fall in as a reward for waiting so patiently. After the food was tucked carefully back into the pantry, he called his sister, trying to rein in some of the excitement in his voice.

“Hey, Ymir. I don't need a ride this morning, someone else offered to take me. So, you know, you can just take the day off.” The words tumbled out just like Jean’s had. 

She snickered. “Slow down, Freckles. Who’s driving you?”

“Jean,” he murmured.

“Oh. I see. Ditching good ol’ Ymir for the cute guy.”

“He's cute?”

“Take it with a grain of salt, because I think I'm the most lesbian of lesbians, but, yes, he’s cute. And if you want a description, you'll have to wait until later,” she teased.

He stuck his tongue out at the phone. “So it's okay?”

“Oh yeah, if he's gonna make you really happy. Because it seems like he really wants to.”

“Shut up. Friends, Ymir, friends.”

“Uh huh.”

Acacia sat calmly at his side, a contrast to her charge, who was nearly bouncing on his toes waiting by the door. He made himself wait half a beat before opening the door when Jean knocked - he always knocked.

They got the coffee, and Jean was kind enough to pay despite his protests. He earned one of those raspy, chuckling kinds of laughs from him when he picked up the wrong cup from the center console cup holders and got a mouthful of bitter black coffee. His nose wrinkled, and he turned his head to swallow shakily. 

“Black coffee? How could you play a blind man like this?”

Jean had his head bowed over the steering wheel, laughing himself silly. “I'm not the one who grabbed the wrong cup.” 

He washed the taste away with his creamy, sugary sort-of coffee and a happy sigh. “Sorry for my germs.”

“It's alright; I don't mind.” His sip was audible in the interior of his car, accompanied only by the rushing sound of the heat and Jean’s fading laughter. 

“I hope you snort coffee into your nose,” he said with burning cheeks.

Jean gasped. “How rude.”

The rest of their car ride was like that, sharing laughter and talking as they sipped their coffees on the way to class. Acacia was laying down in the backseat, her ears pricked up like she was listening intently to their conversation. Which she probably was; he swore she knew more than people were willing to admit a dog could know.

After class, when they were walking out to the car, Jean stopped them. “You know what we should do?”

“Mm?”

“Lunch.”

“Coffee and lunch? This is becoming quite a day.”

“Well it sounds fun, right?”

He looked down and smiled. “Yeah, sure. But you're letting me pay; you did coffee.” 

“Coffee and lunch aren't even close to the same; at the very least I'll pay for my own.”

They slid into the car, still fighting over lunch. “Alright, alright. I've got a proposal for you. No lunch. A movie instead. And you can test out those skills that you auditioned with.”

“Will you go easy on me? A classic that's harder for me to mess up?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“‘The Princess Bride’.”

“Too easy.”

“What?!” He sounded astonished.

“I saw it too many times before. It'll skew the results.”

Jean got quiet, a thinking kind of quiet. “‘The Notebook’.”

The idea of sitting on his couch with Jean next to him, narrating ‘The Notebook’ was more appealing than it should've been. Especially considering that it fell very high on his list of date night movies, and even higher on the list of movies that made him cry without fail.

“Perfect. You can help me cook.”

“You cook?” 

“You’ll see. Now, I think you should take me home so that I have time to prepare for this evening.” He hid a laugh behind his hand.

Gravel popped under the tires as they pulled into his driveway, and he slipped out of the car quickly, opening the door for Acacia. 

Jean turned around. “You should really lift her out, helps with their hips.”

He looped his arm under her torso and through her forelegs, lifting her easily and setting her down on the ground. “Like that?”

The other man’s voice sounded strained. “Exactly. Just like that.”

“Bye, Jean. I'll see you later.”

“Goodbye.”

He slipped Acacia’s vest off once they were inside and brought his knuckle over his mouth, effectively hiding his smile from the house while he leaned up against the door. Christ, it felt like he was some nervous kid again. This nervous kid was going to look amazing and make something so great that Jean wouldn't believe it. Luckily, it was still lunchtime, so there was time to make things the way he wanted to make them. He sucked in a breath and started by pulling out a big pan and a crockpot, plugging in the crockpot, and getting the pan on the stove with a little cooking oil in it. Usually, he cooked with Ymir, so that there was someone to cover the parts of cooking that not being able to see and only having one arm made near impossible. Like cutting, or looking at the oven knob to see how high it's turned up, or not spilling things everywhere. However, this prep, he could handle. He put chicken breasts into the pan and set a timer so that he wouldn't overcook them; they didn't need long. The rest of the cooking would happen in the crockpot, which he plugged in and turned to a low heat. He could tell because the knob only clicked once when he turned it. The plan was fettuccine alfredo, and he wanted to slow cook the chicken until he could shred it with a fork. Now, that was the way to do it. Even though he knew wasn't supposed to, he picked off a piece of the cooking chicken and passed it down to Acacia. Once it came out of the pan, he set it down in the crockpot with some cream, chicken stock, and herbs, and left it. The rest of the ingredients, besides refrigerated ones, he took out and set on the counter, reciting their order out loud so that it would be easy to remember where he had put each of them.

More firewood needed to be hauled inside, and Acacia followed him when he went outside to begin the usual process of stacking pieces and then gingerly sliding his arm underneath of them so that he wouldn't have to make more than one trip. Once the logs were on the old work table by the pile, he heard her nails on the pitted wood and felt one less piece when he reached over to grope his stack. His hand fell and found her ears, scratching behind them. “Thank you.”

Despite saying that he really only needed her for walking about, she could find specific things for him, carry things when one arm wasn't enough, and knew how to clean up her toys after she was done playing. That last one was convenient, to keep him from tripping on something, but he also found it funny to hear the squeaks and thuds of toys hitting the bottom of their basket.

“What should I wear, Cacie?” He could feel her wagging tail fanning the air as he stood in front of his dresser. “Maybe the dark green sweater? Ymir did say that the knit makes me look really good.”

He tugged it on, careful of where the tag was. A nice pair of jeans, more fitted and tailored than what he usually wore, he felt the difference immediately. Instead of boots, little-worn oxfords. She poked her nose into his hand, so he was pretty sure that she approved.

There was a sharp knock at the door, and he walked down the stairs to answer it.

“Hey, Marco. Thanks for having me over. You look really nice.”

“Come in, come in. It's cold out there, almost smells like snow.” He smiled broadly at the compliment. “Thanks. What are you wearing?”

“It almost is snowing; we’ll see if there was anything to the forecast.” Jean cleared his throat. “We have a black button down shirt cuffed up to my elbows and untucked over slim-fit black trousers with - listen to this - ‘mahogany’ brown leather Chelsea boots.”

He laughed and nodded his head. “You look really nice too.”

“Now, you're going to help me cook. You can be my sous chef.”

“I should've known that you were into Food Network too.”

“Oh yeah, I'm in deep.”

Acacia rounded the corner into the front hall from the kitchen where she’d been eating her dinner, and Jean snorted. “You didn't!”

She had on a white turtleneck sweater; he knew it was white because he Facetimed Ymir. “She is being very patient with me.”

“Well, she's stunning, of course. Dog model status.”

They laughed as they walked back into the kitchen, and Jean made an impressed noise. “This is a lot.”

“It's really not too bad; fettuccine alfredo is pretty easy.”

“Fettuccine alfredo?”

“Uh huh.”

“Fuck, yes.” He drew out the ‘yes’, his voice a reverent whisper. “I don't think you understand how much I love this pasta. Fuck it, we’re celebrating now. I brought wine.” 

He heard sloshing. “Do you have a corkscrew?”

Fingers started at the sink and brushed two drawers before stopping and pulling the third one open, reaching back into the left corner of the drawer and procuring a corkscrew. “Tada.”

There was the click of the corkscrew being flipped open, the near-silent squeal of cork against thick glass, and then a subtle pop that resonated in the bottle.

“Red or white?”

“Red.”

“Perfect.” He grabbed two wine glasses from the second shelf of the cabinet farthest from the sink on the right and set both of them down on the counter. When Jean pushed one of them into his hand, he lifted it to toast and then took a sip. “That is some good wine. Be careful, because I'm certainly not going to be watching the bottle.” He winked. “Now let’s get cooking.”

The chicken came out of the crockpot and sat on half of the butcher block cutting board for him to shred with a fork. The other half was dedicated to herbs, which Jean was chopping finely. He showed him which cheeses to grate and which ones to shave, how much he needed of each, how to make a cheese sauce without burning the hell out of it, and when to integrate the herbs, spices, and chicken.

“Now, while that mingles together, we can put the pasta into the salted, boiling water because it doesn't take as long to cook as everything else and we want it al dente.” 

“I am absorbing all of this cooking know-how.”

“Good. Now once the pasta is done, you strain it in a colander and then pour into into the sauce, which you should bring down to barely a simmer.”

He reached for pasta bowls from the second shelf in the cabinet next to the sink on the right. Once it was ready, he used tongs to fill both bowls and set them on the counter. His hand found Jean’s shoulder, and he lead him to the table, pulling out a chair with his foot and setting the plate down in front of him. The plate in front of him sat untouched, not until he heard what Jean thought. He heard a fork clinking against the dish and leaned forward eagerly. 

“So?”

“So why don't you have your own goddamn restaurant? Jesus Christ.”

Marco leaned back, pleased, and a took his own bite. “You know, I think your help made it better than usual.”

Jean laughed. “I really doubt it; all I did was listen to you and try not to cut my fingers off.”

“Well, I’d say that it was a success.”

Once they were finished, he stacked the dishes in the sink and grabbed the bottle of wine. He poured it carefully with his thumb and forefinger while his middle finger floated in the glass so that he would feel when it was full enough. He caught his finger in between his teeth and sucked the wine off. “I'm ready for a movie if you are.”

“Most definitely.”

There wasn't much to tell about the movie besides how he spent its entirety very aware of where Jean was on the couch next to him or what his voice sounded like while he was narrating things like what people looked like, where they were, and what was happening. He’d already seen the movie enough - when he actually could see it - that the narration wasn't a must-have, but he was more than enjoying himself. When it petered off, he let it be and assumed Jean found himself engrossed. His brow crinkled when he heard soft sniffling. 

“If you cry, I'll cry.”

Another sniff. “Sorry,” he whimpered, half-laughing through his tears.

It didn't matter. What he didn't tell Jean was that he would've started crying regardless. This movie never failed to not only make him cry, but make him sob grossly. And crying was exactly what he was doing by the end of it. The tears slipped down his face, leaving his cheeks slick and shining. It was different than when he cried because of the hurt, when the tears hid themselves in his throat before springing to his eyes. 

“Never thought I'd see Marco Bodt cry.”

He wiped at his eyes. “Happens more than you’d think.” 

“What do you mean?”

The bottle of wine was too empty for having the kind of conversation that makes someone realize just how broken you really are.

“Didn't mean anything.”

He felt Jean shift on the couch next to him. “Yeah? You sure?”

“No,” he whispered. “I am… nothing. Anymore. I don't have a job. I can't sculpt. Every day, I get up, and I clean, and I tidy, and I haul firewood that I chopped before this shit happened to me. Maybe I leave the house to spend time with Ymir, but I can't grocery shop on my own, and I can't drive anymore. I try and learn Braille, and it's so frustrating that I give up and listen to audiobooks until I fall asleep in my chair and Acacia wakes me up.” His deep exhale did nothing to ease the familiar lump, and the fact that the dam was already broken - that he was already crying - made it harder to hold back. “I can't keep renovating the house on my own. For god’s sake I can't even really watch TV or a movie anymore unless I've already seen it.”

Booze was maybe a bad plan. As of the past year he'd become a retrospective, sad drunk. And that was the opposite of what he'd wanted to be tonight. 

“Marco, I -”

“You really don't have to say anything. I'm sorry.”

“I want to. I just don't know what.” The heat of slender fingers pressed into his shoulder. “You aren't less because this happened to you.”

“You would be the first to think so.”

"I know that Ymir and your parents don't think that.”

“And I know that some people do.”

Those fingers squeezed comfortingly. “Who?”

It didn't hurt so much to think about him anymore, it really didn't. He didn't miss his warm bulk in bed at night, and he didn't miss the timbre of his voice. What did hurt was him leaving, the fact that there was nothing he could've done to control him leaving. Nothing except for being less… broken. Nothing except for forgetting the feeling of being blinded and the stickiness of his blood. Nothing except for not needing therapy to keep him from going off of the deep end. Nothing except for not laying in bed all day some days, and crying quietly when he thought it would go unnoticed.

“He doesn't matter anymore.”

“Then what does?”

“Nothing.”

“Not Acacia? Not your family? Not me?”

He wiped at his eyes again, like that would make them stop weeping. Acacia was there before he even patted his thigh, the heft of her head resting on his lap. 

“I can't sculpt anymore. Can't lift and tear the clay. Can't roll, or shape, or even see what the hell I’m doing.”

“Have you tried?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“Just the once.”

Jean sighed softly through his nose. “You know, I've met with a lot of blind people. And I don't know one of them who can do everything the way that they used to if they haven't always been blind. You're still an artist, still a sculptor. It's still in you.” A finger poked his chest. “You just have to find how to be who you are without this.” The finger tapped by the corner of his eye gently. “Because this -” He took his hand. “- is what does the sculpting, and you've still got a damn good one. I know. Tonight I watched you prepare one of the best meals that I've ever eaten. This hand is more capable than you give it credit for.”

“Thank you.” The words knocked together like dry leaves rattling in the wind.

\--

The next morning, he woke up to a call from Ymir. 

“Hey, lazy bones. This is the third time I've called you. I can't drive you to class today. Historia’s appointment got moved up, and she really wants me there. You can catch a ride with Jean, yeah?”

“Mm.”

“Repeat so I know that you heard me.”

"Bones. Jean.”

“Wouldn't you like to. Now the important part please.”

He rolled over and groaned. “You can't drive me.”

“Good. You're telling me about your date later.”

“Mm.”

The second she hung up, and he snuggled back into the covers, his phone went off again. He was about to pitch it out of the window.

“Hey, Marco, it’s Jean.”

That woke him up.

“Oh, hey!” He could feel his face getting dark. Last night wasn't one of his best moments. Admittedly, everything was going pretty amazingly until he ruined it. He did the one thing that drove people in his life away, which was be the guy who lost everything. It sounded stupid, and he knew that, but people didn't want to hear about how hard things were. They wanted a success story, a triumphant rebound. They wanted him to be broken, but not really. They wanted him to be strong and defiant in the face of what had happened. And he was, sometimes. Just not last night, not when he wanted to be.

“I was wondering if you wanted a ride to class again.”

“I - uh - I already told Ymir that I’d ride with her; it's fine. Thanks for offering.”

“Oh, I see. Well, okay. I'll see you there then?”

“For sure.”

After that, he had to get out of bed. Walking took a lot longer than driving, and it would be the farthest he'd ever gone with Acacia, especially alone. He was still wearing the sweater from last night and contemplated keeping it on, but changed into a warm Henley and work boots instead. A shearling-lined, navy anorak over it all would be enough to make the walk. He buckled Acacia into her harness after feeding her breakfast, locking the door behind them once they started on their way. For the first few miles, it was easy. He lived in a pretty quiet area, but he could hear the city soon enough: the honking of cars, banging construction, the bustle of hundreds of thousands of people. The city meant intersections and crosswalks, all which he trusted Acacia with, but walking in the midst of that blind still felt daunting. 

Her gait was smooth and brisk without being too fast for him to keep up. She lead him easily around trash cans and signs in front of stores, and he directed her each time the music he was listening to was interrupted by his phone giving another direction. After stopping at a crosswalk, he felt her move forward again once the light was green and the road was clear. 

He heard the screams seconds after Acacia yipped sharply at his side. She had anticipated what everyone around them was just realizing, which was that a red light was about to be run by a car going so fast that the tires were squealing against the pavement, and they were in the way. She reacted long before he or anyone else did, tearing the handle of her harness from his hand as she reared up and knocked him back with her bulk. The last thing that he heard before his head hit the ground were those tires and Acacia yelping.

\--

Marco woke up disoriented. The first thing that he noticed was the throbbing in the back of his head. The next, that he was sitting upright. The last, that Acacia wasn't by his side. Other details filtered in, but not being able to see where he was or who was around him had panic clenching in his chest.

"Where is she? Where is she?” He sat up completely, feeling around him. A bed, a hospital bed, judging by the rails on the sides. 

“Mr. Bodt, please calm down. You have a concussion, please relax. We’re bringing your family in.”

“Marco! What the hell were you thinking, you dummy! You said that you had a ride!” Ymir gripped him so tightly he could barely breathe. “You do realize that if something happened to you, I'd never forgive myself, right? God.”

He heard soft crying and raised his chin from Ymir’s shoulder, swiveling his head towards the sound. “Dad?” he murmured.

His father took Ymir’s place, cradling him more than hugging him. “I thought I lost you again.” 

His tears spilled over; he couldn't help it, not with his dad crying. “You didn't; I'm so sorry. You didn't. I'm okay.” Did he dare? He had to know, even if he didn't want to. “Is - is Acacia okay?”

Mr. Bodt sniffed and pulled away. “Ymir, do you mind?” 

“Sure.”

The second he heard the click of nails on the hospital tile, the wave of relief that slammed into him bowed his head and shoulders. “Come here, Cacie,” he whispered, patting his thigh.

“You know, you shouldn't have her jumping. It's bad for their hips.” Jean’s voice was barely audible, raspy with his own lump of tears. 

The bed sagged as Acacia settled against his side and Jean sat on the edge.

“Why didn't you let me drive you?”

“I - I didn't want to face you. Not after last night.”

“But, why?” Jean sounded angry.

“The only people who have ever left me did it because I'm not enough anymore. And I had just showed all of that to you. Everything that I'm ashamed of.”

“Fuck that. You didn't even give me the chance to stay. And I'm not leaving; I'm not going anywhere for Christ’s sake.” He took his hand. “Because fettuccine alfredo, okay? And because sculpting, and HGTV, and carrying firewood.”

Marco laughed. It was a giggly, teary kind of laugh, but it was a laugh.

“Because black coffee.”

“And because red wine.”

“And because you.” He said it. He said it and felt his face get hotter than Jean’s hands.

“Yeah, because you.” He heard the smile in his voice.


End file.
